Yes
by One More Artist
Summary: She wasn't ugly. She wasn't boring. She wasn't weak. She was perfect in every way he could think of. Maybe it was her perfection that made him scared. Maybe that's why she made him weak at the knees. He'd never know or care. All he could think of was what to do to make her say that little three-letter word.


It wasn't that she was ugly. No, certainly not that. In fact, she was one of the prettier girls he had ever seen with her wide green eyes and wavy auburn hair that was more red than brown. And he liked the way she walked, long legs loping easily, hips swaying with effortless motion. She had high cheekbones, too, dotted with freckles that reminded him of sprinkles on vanilla ice cream over her pale, pale skin and soft pink lips, full to perfection, that made him want to just lean over and-

No. She was definitely not ugly.

She wasn't dull either. Actually, she was rather interesting. She had a way of talking about her favorite books that made him want to sit at the edge of his seat and listen intently. The way her eyes would sparkle made him thing of emeralds. The way her lips would move in fast succession made him want to watch her just to memorize the way they moved, the way they shaped her words before she'd even voiced them, forming them with that elegant mouth. She had a way of saying even the simplest words that sparked a hitch in his chest, that made him want to ask her question after question just so she'd keep talking on and on.

No, she was certainly not boring.

And she wasn't weak, he noticed. The way she could face down anyone, head held high, chin up, eyes ablaze, was admirable in anyone but especially in someone of her stature. She was like a bird almost. Small bones, body pitched forward constantly as if she were about to take flight. Tiny, too. She couldn't weigh more than a hundred fifteen pounds. So he had been astonished the first time he had seen her stare down with his very own mother without a hint of apprehension.

No, she was as strong as any man.

She wasn't mean. She didn't have a bad temper. She didn't hold grudges. She wasn't deplorable. She was adorably shy sometimes but outgoing when she needed to be. She wasn't a pushover but not stubborn, either. They had so much in common but not enough to clash. They agreed on everything important and only argued about the little things, and even those arguments were wonderful, pleasurable, glorious. The first thing he wanted to do when he read a new book was give it to her and see what she thought of it. He wanted to know what she thought of _everything. _He thought of her constantly.

So why, why, WHY?

Why did he hold himself back when he saw her? Why did he always leave the room when she was there? Why did his hands shake when he was near her? Why did she make him want to run away all the time? Why was she the most terrifying thing he could think of?

Why was it so hard to just talk? To look her straight in the eye?

Oh, but he already knew the answer. It had nothing to do with her, nothing at all, and everything to do with _him_. It was this- this _sickness_ inside him. A fear rooted so deeply that it seized his heart when he saw her. What if he did or said something wrong? What if she ran away screaming?

He hid it well. He knew he did. He had perfected it from the time he was young. Clasping his hands behind his back to hide their trembling. A smooth, easy smile to disguise a grimace. A silky laugh to cover over the fact that he had no idea what to say.

But he was scared, petrified.

Which was why it was such a miracle when he found himself pushing through the crowd in that too-small room to find her. His eyes scanned the crowd as he tried to swallow down his heartbeat. His gaze skipped over face after face, but none of them were the one he wanted to see. He felt frustration begin to make a fist in his stomach when _bam! _His clean white shirt was assaulted with a cold wetness that seeped in immediately. He looked down in surprise, seeing a dark red wine stain spreading down his torso. He looked up at the offender, about to tell him to be more careful next time, mouth turned down in a scowl, and froze with his mouth open. Standing in front of him with an empty wine glass in her hand and a shocked, horrified expression was the girl he'd been looking for.

Her lips were glossy and shiny in that lighting, forming a perfect "O." Her eyebrows were shot all the way up, arched high on her forehead. Overall, he couldn't help but think that it was the most adorable thing he'd ever seen. That was, until he saw the hot blush creeping up into her cheeks, highlighting her gorgeous cheekbones.

Then he realized he had been quiet too long. The silence stretched between them like a canyon so wide you could hardly see to the other side. But he tried. He reached. He stood on his tiptoes and craned to see it.

"Hey," he choked out.

"I- I'm so sorry!"

He felt his palms begin to sweat. So many things he wanted to say, so many words forming in his mind and being sent down to his tongue, only to get caught right behind his teeth. He wished for a fistful of letters to make into words. Something to say. Anything to end this silence.

He saw her glance down, displaying perfectly her long, dark lashes. He loved the way they brushed against the apples of her cheeks and then her eyebrows whenever she looked up. For some reason, that gave him courage. Her beautifully simple eyelashes gave him courage.

He cleared his throat.

"Too busy checking out everyone's shoes to notice you were walking straight into me?" he asked, feeling his signature smirk slide onto his lips like an old friend sliding into his usual seat next to you at school. It felt natural.

Her blush spread farther up and across her nose. God, she was so beautiful. Cool green eyes came up to meet his.

"I was watching where I was going perfectly fine. As I seem to remember, _you _ran into _me._ Too busy staring at your reflection in the mirrors on the walls to notice me?" she replied. He loved the way her mouth puckered in annoyance after she was finished talking, like her own personal, sassy period mark to end the sentence.

He put a hand to his chest and faked a hurt expression. "Oh, please, darling. You wound me." He straightened his posture to his normal erect position and smirked down at her. "And don't pretend you don't like to stare at me just as much as I do."

His heart was racing, and he could feel hot sweat rolling down the back of his shirt. When did it get so hot in here? He felt someone bump into him from behind, but he barely noticed. All he could think about was maintaining his composure.

Her mouth soured into a scowl, eyebrows knitting together. "You're such a jerk."

"It's a talent, love. And anyway, you didn't deny it."

She scoffed and crossed her arms. Most girls would pop a hip out as well, a stance he found looked like a spoiled princess. His sister did it much too much to tolerate it. But she didn't do that. Her arms may have been crossed, but her back stayed straight and tall. She looked grand, like a queen rather than a princess.

"It's pointless to argue with you. You always twist my words around."

He felt his smirk widen into a soft smile, the wine stain on his shirt forgotten. He discreetly wiped his sweaty hand on his pants, hoping beyond hope she didn't notice, and held it out to her with his palm up and elegant fingers slightly curled in invitation. He leaned forward slightly, leaning into her as if he were about to share a secret. The defiant spark in her emerald eyes faded as he did so. Her lips flipped up slightly at the corners.

"Amelia," he began softly. She loved the way he said her name. She had always hated it when he called her by her full name, but the way he said it now made her insides melt. He said it in such a way, lips parting for the beginning vowel, touching for just a second at the soft "m," and seemingly ending on a soft breath. Every syllable sounded beautiful when he spoke. "Would you like to dance with me?"

He had no idea where that courage came from, but it didn't matter to him. Nothing mattered in that one moment except that soft reply waiting on her lips. She said it so quietly that he thought she had only sighed at first. But when she took his hand, his insides lit up, and he realized that she had replied to his advances in the positive.

Dancing was easy. He knew how to dance. He didn't have to talk when they danced, didn't have to embarrass himself. When they danced, he got to hold her without any fear of rejection. So they danced. And they danced. They danced the night away.

And, as they did, Ian realized that there was never, ever a more beautiful thing invented than that one, tiny, three-letter word. It was that small thing that gave him courage, made him strong, a word he wished he would hear over and over for all eternity, so long as it was her beautiful voice saying it.

_Yes._


End file.
